


Repercussions

by ScandalousMinds



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angry John, Angst, Angst and Feels, Brother Feels, Gen, Implied Mpreg, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft Feels, Other, Parental Lestrade, Parentlock, Post-Reichenbach, Sad, Sad Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-11
Updated: 2014-07-11
Packaged: 2018-02-08 09:21:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1935501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScandalousMinds/pseuds/ScandalousMinds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has a son... Sherlock's son.</p>
<p>There are always repercussions. Especially, for ones actions.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Inspired by Prompt below.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Repercussions

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt:  
> When Sherlock returns to London after two years, Mycroft neglects to inform him that John has a son... Sherlock's son.
> 
> I apologised this prompt fill became something else entirely.
> 
> Sorry for any Errors 
> 
> Can be found here:  
> http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/22393.html?thread=132056441#t132056441

Mycroft Holmes, had never been one for sentiment but as he stood tapping his umbrella idly. Watching, his younger sibling slip skilfully into his treasured Belstaff, for the first time in two-years, he was _almost_ close to ‘moved’ **_almost_**. There were however ‘issues’ he felt the need to inform his younger sibling of, ones that were sure to disrupt his brother’s idealistic notions of his upcoming ‘reunion’ with his beloved doctor Watson. The problem at hand however was that his brother had never been one to allow himself to ‘be informed’ of anything by anyone, especially if that one was one Mycroft Holmes. “I feel it pertinent, to advise you against your current course of action.”

Sherlock barely paused as he continued to stroke his woollen ‘beloved.’

“Do you? Well, I’ll be sure to remember that. Good day Mycroft.” Sherlock smiled falsely, dusting off non-existent lint as he whirled towards the door of the ‘very’ secret bunker.

His movement however was halted by a firm grip on his arm.

“Brother. I must insist I’m afraid.” Mycroft continued, ignoring the bemused gape on Sherlock’s face.

“There… are things, you are as yet… unaware of. And your, current pathway will undoubtedly leave you dismayed. You may… dare I say thank me, at some point.” Mycroft, paused scanning the detectives face. He sighed almost immediately, dropping his hold on his younger brother. “At least, you would if you chose to take note, but I can see _that_ is a hope to far. Very well brother, continue on. Though, I do find _‘I told you so’s’_ entirely dull, allow me to say this. **There are always repercussions**. Especially, for ones actions. Do bare that in mind won’t you?”

“Do you ever tire of yourself?” Sherlock’s eyes rolled dramatically. “You’re so unbelievably tedious, when you speak more than you’re quota of twaddle.”

Mycroft sighed the long-suffering sigh of a man who has dealt with Sherlock’s **difficulties** for a lifetime. “Toodle do, brother mine. Do give John my best. I’m sure your plan will go just… swimmingly.” With sarcasm dripping into each word, Mycroft took his leave. The elder brother didn’t look forward to the ramifications his brother was to face but he knew they had them to face none the less. He would just need to be there, as he always was.

***

Standing at the door staring for what seemed like a lifetime Sherlock finally raised his hand to knock. The wait was precisely 15.6 seconds but upon seeing John’s face fall and blank itself, Sherlock actually could have happily waited a little longer.

Sherlock inhaled deeply. “Short story… not… dead.”

John said nothing if it wasn’t for the rapid breathing of his chest, Sherlock would have sworn he were a statue.

“John…” that was as far as Sherlock got. He had expect, shouting, punches, slaps, he’d even thought of a contingency plan if John were to shoot him. What he hadn’t planned for was the cold, dead, emotionless stare of the man whose expressions were imbedded into his whole persona. Sherlock, didn’t know what to do after the initial hello. _Perhaps_ he should have planned better.

“You lost weight… I hadn’t expected you to have lost weight. I liked it. The weight I mean. But, this is fine too, this is very fine.” He was rambling trying to fill the silence and distract himself from John’s relentless gaze.

He looked away unable to look John in the eye any longer. He let his gaze fall to a small piece of material printed with ducks on it, scrunched into the doctor’s tight fist.

_The detective had thought that was…odd_. But, before he was able deduce the origins of it, a small cry pierced through him snapping his attention over John’s shoulder. There, he saw Lestrade walking down the narrow hallway. Talking, before he took notice of either of the two men currently in a Russian stare off within the doorway.

“John, I think he’s getting impatient. Aren’t you mate? Yes you are, you’re just like me when I’m hungry. I know _munch_ ’ I know, John have you—“

Lestrade’s words died in his throat as he finally looked up. But, Sherlock couldn’t speak either. The small bundle of cells and DNA in the detective inspector’s arms had done what only John could. It had rendered him speechless. He didn’t need to ask. He could already see.

_Brunet curls, deep blue eyes, pale skin and upturn nose. A child. No. Their child. John and I have a child. A boy. 14. No 15 months old. Mine then. Definitely mine._

Sherlock’s mind raced as it tried to fill in the blanks.

“No. Even _you,_ wouldn’t have been that cruel.” Lestrade’s words were sharp with anger, disbelief and a small bit of hope but that emotion was crushed down quickly.

“Yes. Yes he would.” For the first time, John dared to speak. Looking almost amused. But, that _wasn’t right_ … was it?

“When did… when?” Sherlock stared and ended lamely eyes never leaving the ‘tiny being’ in Lestrade’s arms.

“3 days after you killed yourself.” Came the unnaturally pleasant tone.

“I didn’t… I was unaware… that…”

“Oh, don’t worry about it. No, hard feelings, yeah? It’s fine. Was probably for the best anyway.” The words stung, but the _way_ they were spoken hurt even more. John was being… nice? No that wasn’t the word… but, it was close. The tone was too light, too sickly sweet to be legitimate. The detective found it profoundly unsettling.

“John, are you?” Lestrade was apparently also thrown by the doctor’s demeanour, Sherlock found he felt oddly comforted by that.

“No. No, I’m fine. If I’m completely honest. I’m not… surprised in the least. I mean granted even **_I_** , didn’t think you’d go **_this_** far but… I guess, when the games’ on the games’ on, yeah?”

Sherlock was unsure of what to say. It was, disconcerting to see John this detached and unreadable.

“Could I… could I come inside?”

John’s eyes got cold quickly. Quicker, than the detective had ever seen. “ **No**.”

“John please. I deserve a chance to explain.”

“You. Deserve nothing from me. You. **Get**. Nothing. From me. Ever again.”

“I didn’t mean for—“

“Yes, you did. This is exactly what you ‘ _meant_ for’. You _meant_ for me to believe you dead. Congratulations. I did. Cried, at the graveside and everything. Mission completed.”

“I was trying to—“

“I don’t care, truthfully.”

“John—“

John cut in, again. “I lived. I didn’t think I would but I did. Did so without, you. We’ve done just fine. So, don’t trouble yourself. You, should go now. I have a son to feed.” And with that John shut the door firmly in the detectives face.

***

Sherlock stood motionless at the doorway. The moments ticked by slowly, as he thought over what had just transpired. Vaguely the detective heard raised voices on the other side of the door, but he was too shocked to even attempt to eavesdrop.

_‘We have a child’_ were the only words spinning within his mind. Looping so swiftly he began to feel slightly nauseous.

When the door swung open again, the detective startled and began speaking rapidly until his gaze drew upwards.

“John? I think—“                                          

Lestrade put his hand up quietening the detective, instantly. “Come in. it’s cold out here.”

Sherlock wordlessly followed him inside taking in the surrounding environment in silence as he trailed the detective inspector into a sitting room where John was nestled into the corner of a sofa with a guzzling infant who was clutching firmly at the bottle. John, didn’t look up from the child.

“Should I… make tea?” Lestrade shifted uncomfortably.   

Before Sherlock was able to process the words, John cut in swiftly. “He’s not staying.”

Sherlock’s heart stuttered. “I feel—shouldn’t we talk about…”

“Nothing to say. I didn’t want to open the door. That, was all Greg. You should thank him for even getting this far.”

“Greg? I don’t—“

The DI threw his hands up, in exasperation. “Christ, Sherlock! How is it you still don’t know who I am?”

Sherlock blinked. “I know who you are, Lestrade.”

“Right. Just not my first name.” Lestrade, began shaking his head.

“I never needed to know it.” Sherlock groused, turning to face the doctor, once more. “You live… here?”

The detective could see the doctor was deciding whether or not he wanted to speak to him. Eventually John decided. “Obviously.”

“You… live with… lest—Greg?” Sherlock wanted to wince at how inept he felt. But, he knew he was out of his depth at the present moment.

“Two for two.” The doctor answered, curtly.

“Why?” Sherlock quizzed.

John looked up but his gaze was on Lestrade and Lestrade’s gaze was firmly on john. Sherlock, tried to swallow away his discomfort and pretended not to notice.

The agonising silence was broken by Lestrade.

“So… Sherlock. Where have you been? If not…”

The detective answered quickly, for once grateful for pointless words. “Serbia, Germany, Russia, Egypt, Kosovo, Somalia and various African coasts, but they were primarily short stays.”

“Wow.” Lestrade’s eyebrows rose and then furrowed. “But… why?”

John chuckled, darkly. “Now, there’s a question.”

“Moriarty.” John froze in place but Sherlock continued. “Moriarty, threatened to kill yourself, John and Mrs Hudson if I did not comply. I had no choice in the matter.”

“Lie.”

Sherlock’s eyes flashed to John’s “What?”

“I said, lie.” John replied simply, not dropping eye contact.

“John, I assure you every word is the truth.” Sherlock breathed.

“Who’d you tell?” Sherlock froze, he knew this was not a good territory to be in “Come on, who knew?”

“I-- I don’t see how—“

“Who knew? Come on, Sherlock. You, wanted the chance to explain so… explain. Who knew your plan?” John smiled a smile that contained nothing but danger within it. “Okay. Let me guess. Um, Mycroft, obviously. Homeless network? Yes of course. Couldn’t of pulled it off without witnesses, but not average witnesses’ no, they would have seen your _trick_. Me? No I was safely out of the way, that’s how you did it. Right? But, where did you… oh. Oh, of course. Molly. Am I right? Is that where the body came from? Molly? Fitting really.”

The younger man struggled for words. “You’re making it sound—“

John’s eyes narrowed. “What? Bad? No? Cruel? Oh, I think that boat sailed a while ago.”

“I only did it for you. I couldn’t allow you to… not… be here!” The detective puffed.

John snorted. “Well that backfired quite spectacularly, wouldn’t you agree?”

Lestrade chipped in trying to diffuse the tension. “Why don’t I go make us all a cupper—“

“LESTRADE! NOBODY WANTS… TEA!” Sherlock shouted.

“DON’T TALK TO HIM LIKE THAT! HE… IS THE ONLY REASON YOUR EVEN IN THIS HOUSE! REMEMBER THAT! RIGHT NOW. **THAT** … MAN IS YOUR **ONLY** FRIEND!” John shouted back, causing the child in his arms to startle and begin to cry.

“Shh… shh I’m sorry that was naughty of me, shh… come on darling, please don’t cry.” John face was scrunched up in anger and it conflicted with the softness of his voice. The child obviously agreed as it refused to quieten. Lestrade soon stepped forward.

“Should I?” Lestrade stretched out his hands and the child went willing to the calmest person in the room. “Come on munch’ all these loud voices, huh? Scary aren’t they?” the DI swayed and in no time the child settled resting his tear-stained face against the older man’s chest. John moved forward resting his hands on the tiny boys' back, whispering apologises. However, quickly the doctor became aware of his ‘too close’ proximity to the detective and retreated to the far side of the living once more.

Sherlock was appalled. This was **WRONG**. All of it. Everything was **WRONG**. This was all his and yet _he_ was the only one who didn’t _fit_.

“I made a mistake, John”

“That wasn’t a mistake. That was… betrayal.”

“I did it for you. All of it. It was only ever for **you**.”

“No. You only had to do what you did, because you played with the monster. You enjoyed him. Please, don’t lie and say you didn’t because we both know _you did_. You were _bored_. He was _interesting_. What was it you said once? _‘I love the smart ones, they're always so desperate to get caught’_ and Mori—that animal was smart, probably the smartest criminal you’ll ever go up against. When it was others getting killed, blown up in buildings, strapped to bombs it was ‘fun’ but when it was ‘me’ or the other people you knew it was what? Wrong? You see? That’s why, I don’t care if you ‘ _did it for me’_. You opened the door and invited that animal in for tea and then got upset when he tried to bite. You’re a genius. You **had** to of seen that coming. And yet, you carried on anyway. So no, I’m sorry you don’t get to tell me you did this for ‘me’ because we both know it was always about you. Your game just went wrong.” John, turned to look out of the window as Sherlock stood frozen to the spot.

The detective felt laid bare by John’s summary, while factual it was… wrong somehow. Yes, Sherlock had enjoyed Moriarty but the game was… John had—Sherlock could think of no verbal defence, nothing that would make John _listen_. Everything was aching.

“Sher—Sherlock? Do you wanna… hold… the—“ Lestrade asked quietly.

“GREG!” John snapped as he turned around.

“It’s his kid too. Don’t be that person. Let him hold his son, for God sake!” The doctor and the inspector held a silent battle of wills until John looked down apparently giving his consent.

The inspector stepped forward sliding the small child into the detective’s arms. Stepping away slightly as the child looked up wide eyed.

Sherlock cleared his throat trying to find words, until he realised the ones he never even thought to ask. “What’s—what’s his name?”

Lestrade smiled. “Hamish.”

Sherlock smiled back slightly looking up at John. “Your middle name. I like it.” John said nothing but looked as Sherlock held their son for the first time.

“Hello Hamish.” The small child mumbled slapped a hand over the detective’s mouth, shrieking happily and Sherlock couldn’t help but chuckle there was so much of them in this little boy and he could see it amazingly clearly. It saddened and overjoyed him simultaneously.

The detective watched the child as time passed and Hamish became tired, rubbing his eyes and whining. Suddenly, a sharp cry emitted from him and Sherlock startled unable to gather what he should do. Whatever it was he was doing was obviously wrong as Hamish cried louder grabbing towards Lestrade who watched with guilt and awkwardness.

Sherlock kept his face blank. “It’s fine. He wants _you_. You should take him, I have to leave anyway.”

Lestrade leaned forward scooping the child out of the detective’s arms but decided against keeping hold of him as he handed him straight to John who, was looking less hostile and sadder for the detective. “He’s tired. He’s not—it’s not personal. Are you still at Baker Street? I’ll bring him by and leave him at Mrs Hudson’s so you can spend the day.” John’s pity was too much and Sherlock barely nodded as he turned to leave.

Sherlock had just reached for the door when Lestrade called him, he turned around just in time to be crushed by a bruising hug from the DI. Sherlock, tentatively hugged back, surprised by the emotional surge it was creating within him. He needed to leave.

Lestrade pulled back looking at the ground. “I’m glad you’re alive, Sherlock”

Sherlock nodded and opened the door refusing to look back.

***

Sherlock marched out, needing to walk, run, hide anywhere he could. He couldn’t think of the family he could have had. The months, years he had missed out on because of… what? He wasn’t even sure anymore.

Across the street a black car flash its headlights, but Sherlock refused the acknowledge it. Distantly he heard a car door open, but he steadfastly kept walking.

“Sherlock?” He heard, as Mycroft footsteps strode after him.

“Sherlock, don’t be obtuse. Get into the car.”

“No! Leave me alone!” The detective muttered.

“Sherlock, please!” Mycroft breathed with more emotion than he ever let be displayed.

Sherlock stopped instantaneously. “My child, is not mine. He has my blood. Nothing else. Lestrade is his father and I’m… nothing. I am no one to him.”

“You’re his father Sherlock.” Came the sighed response.

Sherlock shook his head. “No. I’m a stranger.”

“Perhaps at the moment, but in time that shall change.”

“You should have told me! I deserved to know!” Sherlock turned around, his eyes crimson and pained.

Mycroft quirked an eyebrow. “Would it of stopped you? Would it of changed anything?”

Sherlock faltered momentarily. “Perhaps—maybe If I had…”

“The world is not made up of perhaps’ of maybe’s, brother mine. You would not have done anything differently. If anything you would have acted with more haste and less thought. John would have lost his husband, Hamish would had lost his father and I would have lost my brother. And, **THAT** would have been unacceptable.” Mycroft voice while haughty, held grit.

“What do I have if I don’t have them, if I don’t have _John_?” Sherlock’s hand trembled.

“John Hamish Watson-Holmes is angry, some would argue rightfully so, he will take time to simmer down but he shall. Two years and he kept your name, what does that tell you? Hamish William Scott Watson-Holmes is merely an infant, he will never even remember the first 24 months of his life. You have time to right things, Sherlock. But, for once stomping your feet won’t get you there. Patience dear brother, will. _Now_. Get. In. The. **Car**.”

“You forgot to say, I’ll always have you.” Sherlock croaked mockingly, but his heart wasn’t in it.

“Some things are patently obvious and don’t need to be verbalised. Don’t be dull. Get in the car, William.” Mycroft tapped his umbrella and the door opened.

Sherlock dropped his gaze and complied leaning back against the leather seats, closing his stinging eyes. “I didn’t… want this.” The younger man whispered.

“I know, brother mine. I know” The elder Holmes answered back, quietly.

Mycroft turned his head towards the window staring, unseeingly allowing his brothers tears to fall unobserved.

_‘Repercussions.’_ He thinks. _‘There are always repercussions.’_

They pull away in silence making their way to Baker Street.

***

Mycroft stays by his brother’s side.

Sherlock never spends _‘Danger nights’_ alone.

**Author's Note:**

> So sorry for the angst. I don't know what's wrong with me.  
> Hope you enjoyed it, though!
> 
> x


End file.
